A Covenant of Salt
by Morgause1
Summary: After ages of captivity, Melkor returns victorious to Angband and to the very warm welcome of his Maiar. As always, Melkor plays favorites. And just as always, Mairon wins. Spiritual bond/smutty Angbang.


The everlasting, cold vacuum came to an end and Melkor was back in his fortress, victorious. The cold regained aspects of life and death again, heating up into a celebration of fire. The torch-lit halls were loud with the clash of iron and the terrified ululations of sacrificed beasts. Pale creatures of fang and claw raved, maddened by the sudden appearance of the Power in their midst. Liquor flowed like blood in the swirling darkness, further distorting the migraine-flashes of the stolen Jewels.

But now the servants and various followers had finally left the Great Hall and the Silmarils were covered. Melkor lounged on his new throne, relishing the feeling of regained strength. It was sharp and meaningful, a stark contrast to the degradation of his bondage. He drew on that immanent black, echoing and reechoing it until he was almost whole again.

The hall seemed empty, but a murmur rose from the shadows in its corners, barely audible to an untrained ear. Melkor smiled, prolonging the suffering it spoke of. Hours melted away slowly into the stone walls and were gone, along with the spluttering of the last torches. And just as the lamentation turned hopeless, he acquiesced.

"Maiar."

The shadows erupted as the creatures ran, flew, or crawled to him. Some cast themselves disembodied at his feet. The Maiar strove with one another to get closer, to touch, to lick him with their tongues of fire. Spirits nestled against his soul, warming themselves by his flames. His long hair flew around his head, lifted by unseen, adoring hands. Energy crackled back and forth between the Vala and his Maiar, building up as the contact grew and deepened. Melkor took in the multitudes of starved faces surrounding him, all sighing in greed and reaching for him. One was missing.

He spotted him some distance away from the sphere of Maiar, standing before the throne. His back was straight but his eyes were cast down – a strong yet servile stance, awaiting orders. He seemed to be trembling.

"Make room for him."

Grumbling, the spirits drew aside enough for Mairon to pass. He walked towards the throne, visibly fighting himself to slow down his steps. He knelt and Melkor pulled him in to rest his head in his lap. Mairon finally lifted his eyes to the Vala. They were full of so much hunger that Melkor was impressed: he was holding himself remarkably well.

"There's no shame in needing me," Melkor whispered, caressing his strained face. "No weakness. Especially after all you've done for me."

And it was true. While most of the Maiar hibernated during the Vala's long absence or dwindled into some useless, restricted routine, Mairon worked ceaselessly to rebuild the Vala's power for his return. It was a slow, hard work, cut off as he was, and Mairon needed to appear strong. But now he leaned into the caress, letting out a strangled moan of pleasure as the Vala's sharp claws settled back into their familiar grip on his mind, both enslaving and liberating. He gripped the hem of the Vala's robe until his knuckles turned white and concentrated on breathing steadily as the Claiming overwhelmed him. His blood boiled within his veins.

After making sure his hold on them was firm enough once more, Melkor dismissed the Maiar back to their duties. But when Mairon tried to rise from his lap, he grabbed his arm.

"Except you."

Mairon sank back into a crouch, resting his elbows on his master's knees. Melkor smiled down at him.

"Tell me everything."

Mairon spoke. He had a good deal to tell him: three long ages of fortifications, of breeding an army worthy of a god, and of secret forging of weapons. He recounted his strategies, suggested plans for the future. Melkor listened to him engrossed, nodding in all the right places. He did not hear a single word he said. He listened instead to the sound of his voice, unemotional and businesslike: a poor mask to cover up the excited shimmer of his heart as it writhed in the Vala's clasp. He listened to the things unsaid, ancient things that followed laws set before Time, and watched as Mairon's appearance slowly changed back into the beautiful form he used to wear around him. And Melkor would have been content – but as always his temper flared, the hungry Beast forever desiring more than it was given.

Melkor's hands played absent-mindedly with the Maia's braid as he spoke. Presently they moved to his face. One charred thumb rubbed over his wide, full lips. The Maia's voice broke, wavered. He took his hand in both of his and began kissing and licking it, eyelids lowering. Mairon's tongue was as hot as a furnace, but for some reason it didn't bother his new burns. It felt good. Finally released from its confines, his hair spilled like lava in Melkor's lap, shining with its own light. Entrancing as the sight was, Melkor stirred.

"Did I tell you to stop, Lieutenant?"

Mairon swallowed hard and continued speaking as levelly as he could, breath quickening against Melkor's hand. Melkor slid his hands down the Maia's long throat, pressing just hard enough to feel his pulse – and smiled when Mairon's eyes flashed open in the dark, his pupils dilated until his eyes almost seemed black. There was time, there was time now. No need to rush the inevitable. He squeezed slightly harder, and then stopped to toy with the brooch fastening the neck of his tunic. Melkor suddenly noticed that he wore no other jewelry, which was uncommon for the vain creature. The brooch was an amorphous, sharp thing cast in iron and obsidian: a black sun. He laughed softly, earning himself a glimmer of fiery veins beneath Mairon's skin. Such sentimentality was also rather uncommon. He started undoing the clasps of his tunic, dozens of tiny, maddening hooks standing between him and the warm skin he craved.

"I sent spies into the Ered Engrin in search of ore. They are - oh!" Mairon fell silent for a moment when his tunic was torn impatiently down the middle and cast away with distaste. He shivered as the Vala's hands ran down his chest, took a few steadying breathes and continued.

"They are ordered - ah! - to remain as hidden as possible, never to engage in..." The cool hands caressed him, scratched long, red lines down his sides, tormented his sensitive nipples. They ran lower, lower still, until they rested over his groin, playing with the laces of his breeches. Even through the leather, Melkor could feel the heat radiating from him. He pulled slowly at the straining laces and looked down, a cruel snarl stretching over his face.

"You were saying?"

"In... in... I can't." the Maia mouthed, breathless. He was flushed, covered in a light sweat. Melkor ran his fingertips up and down his erection, and Mairon's attempts to talk only wound down to a thin wail. Satisfied that he was now beyond speech, Melkor bent down and kissed him.

Finally rid of the rest of the Maia's clothing, he pulled him up to straddle his thighs. His heart pounded in his chest as lust ran down his skin like water. It had been long. Very long. Mairon's clever fingers tore at his clothes, his lips and tongue drinking in every piece of skin he could reach. Melkor let him, closing his eyes in pleasure. When it became too much, he hoisted Mairon off of him by the hair, reaching his hand between them to part his robes. The dazed Mairon only had a few moments to change his body enough for comfort before he was grabbed by the thighs and slammed down, hard.

Their coupling was fierce, short. Almost unbearable pain was molten, refined, and then fashioned into pleasure. Mairon bloodied Melkor's lips as he came. His screams were still echoing from the walls when Melkor clutched a fistful of his hair again, threw him down on his knees and spilled on his face.

He slumped back onto the throne, heaving, dimly aware that Mairon was hugging his leg and murmuring something. He couldn't hear his words but could feel them in his mind: sparks, worship, belonging. The primitive patterns of the Maiarin soul, all opened up and offered to him. He reached back to him with a short reply of acceptance and owning, and smiled when Mairon melted with happiness at his feet. When the glow faded, Melkor grew restless again.

Aware of the change in his Lord's mood, Mairon got up and dressed in whatever remained of his clothes. He licked his lips and lifted a hand to wipe his face.

"Leave it there. I want everyone to see how I've marked you."

Mairon smiled like a pleased cat, his sharp teeth gleaming. Then bowing a pretty court bow, he left the hall in a rustle of fabric.

* * *

Strangely, after all the storms and violence were done, the secret warmth in Mairon's voice on that long-past day is the last thing to cross Morgoth's mind as he is shoved out of the Door of Night and is forever separated from him. He won't come back this time. And even if the prophecy is correct and he somehow does, there would be no fiery welcome for him, no golden eyes and honeyed voice eager to please him. His Maiar are all slain or dying. **He** would soon be as good as dead, too, cast away into Nothing and Nowhere. And Morgoth would mourn as he only ever mourned one thing and one thing alone, but the Door closes and he is gone.


End file.
